Shoulder Holster
by celestial1
Summary: For the ex cop, old habits die hard.


**Shoulder Holster**

**author's note.** I've been watching Season One, and noticed that Tony used to wear a shoulder holster, though he mostly doesn't anymore. I started wondering why. The profile on is pretty thin, so I've embellished; thus, any factual errors are mine.

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He almost lost it, a few years back.

She stole it right off his unconscious body, that crazy cocktail waitress slash serial killer. But Gibbs recovered it, along with his weapon, his cell, and his almost-brand-new brown jacket. And second only to his relief at not being Vanessa's latest victim, was Tony's relief at getting his shoulder holster back. It was a gift, a surprisingly sentimental parting token from his partner in Peoria. Stiff at first, the leather had been worn to softness in the intervening years. And though Tony didn't need it anymore, it gave him some measure of confidence in an increasingly harsh world.

Dreams of an athletic career vanquished, there was only so much he could do with a degree in Physical Education. Maybe the choice of major was short-sighted of Tony, in retrospect, but who isn't short-sighted at nineteen? Lacking both the patience to teach, and the willingness to live on a teacher's salary, Tony ricocheted around the Midwest for a few years after graduation. Temping, living in furnished apartments, leaving behind only superficial friends and postal forwarding orders. He knew he could call up his father at any time, beg forgiveness, and assume a position as V.P. in his father's business. With a six figure salary, the idea was tempting. But there was something to be said for this life, too. With his athlete's body and his youthful good looks, Tony knew he was drooled over by all the secretaries at the call centers and copy shops where he worked. Unfortunately, one very female boss desired him too, and that led to…

Tony did not stay in Indianapolis for very long.

He could envision a long, monotonous life for himself, in his rare moments of introspection: knowing that eventually the looks would fade and the muscle would turn to fat. He would drift into a position in middle management, which was good enough by all accounts, just not what he had intended. No one would remember the Tony DiNozzo that once was, the hot jock who turned all the girls' heads, and that made him just a little sad.

He didn't intend to go into law enforcement. Tony wasn't the type to stick his neck out for anyone else. He was concerned with one man, and that was Anthony DiNozzo. But his world changed, a little bit at a time, starting with when Betsy Ellis was assaulted. She was the girl down the hall - petite, curly blond hair, turned-up little nose - and Tony had been carrying on a harmless flirtation with her for months. She went on a blind date one evening, and ended up in intensive care. The last time Tony saw Betsy was the day after she got out of the hospital, when her brothers came to move her things out of her apartment. Betsy was dressed in baggy sweats, her hair lank and uncombed, her bruised eyes hidden behind oversized sunglasses. Tony lifted the back end of her couch and she couldn't even look at him. The bright, vivacious girl was gone, and the memory of her sad replacement stuck with Tony for weeks.

Tony knew a lot of girls in college who went into medical fields because of a sick grandma or something. Tony wasn't really like that; it wasn't just Betsy, but it made him think. He didn't have a problem with shoplifting or speeding or unsignalled right turns, but he wasn't naïve enough to think that what had happened to Betsy was a fluke. They were out there, the scum of the earth. It made him so _mad_. Someone had broken her spirit, some _creep_, just to satisfy a cheap thrill. Just because he _could_. Tony applied for the Police Academy before this rare humanistic zeal had worn off.

The training was tough, of course. Even for a former college athlete who still ran ten miles a week, it was tough. But the pride which had saved him from vampires at five carried him through the academy two decades later. He was solidly average, a fairly good shot thanks to that freakishly good eyesight, and pretty well liked by everyone. The first time Tony actually arrested someone, a baby-faced rookie cop, he caught his reflection in a store window. He liked what he saw so much that he filed it away in his memory, to be replayed the next time Dad got drunk and called him up to tell Tony what a disappointment he was.

It was a chicken-and-egg proposition: did he have good investigative skills because he had been a cop, or was he a good cop because of his investigative skills? Gibbs discerned the answer almost immediately upon meeting DiNozzo. He had worked with enough local LEO's to cast an entire season of _Cops _and he knew you didn't develop that kind of skill in five years, especially bouncing from one city to the next the way DiNozzo did. Maybe it was instinct, or maybe the kid had a gut of his own, but Gibbs recognized the talent right off the bat. DiNozzo could pick up on the most arcane details, could make the most obscure connections from seemingly trivial facts.

Tony himself never pondered this conundrum.

Gibbs needed him on his team so badly, even with that ridiculous haircut, that he called in a favor in Baltimore to lure Tony to NCIS. Of course, Tony deserved a good headslap every now and again - okay, about once a day - but Gibbs was careful never to break his spirit completely.

Tony found that he had never been happier than when he came to NCIS. He had an interesting job, attractive female coworkers, and a salary sufficient to buy a _really_ nice car. Gradually he began to feel more and more like a federal agent, and less like the slicked-back cop he had been. Sometimes even now, though, he carries his Sig in the shoulder holster instead of on his belt like Gibbs and the Probie. It isn't a simple matter, retraining the reflex he developed during all that time working homicides or undercover. When anyone on his team is threatened, when split-second timing matters, his hand automatically goes to the weapon at his side.

He doesn't need it anymore; it's become a habit, just like quoting movies in stressful situations, or smiling when he's sad.


End file.
